


Fight Me, Love Me, Know Me

by psyraah



Category: Voltron: Legendary Defender
Genre: Hurt/Comfort, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-10-29
Updated: 2016-10-29
Packaged: 2018-08-27 20:10:43
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,408
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8415052
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/psyraah/pseuds/psyraah
Summary: It shakes him, that the Galra can turn him into something else like he's their plaything, like a machine. It terrifies him that he can never really know what he is, or what he'll become. But Keith does. And maybe that's enough. [Sheith Week 2016: Fight Me/Love Me]





	

Keith has his bayard in his hand, the screaming of an alarm ringing overhead, and two Holts running behind him.

Their steps are light as they dash down purple halls, Pidge’s voice low over the comms as she reports back to the others.

“We’ve got Matt. We’re coming back out.”

They do have Matt, though the guy in the weird Galra crop top with the grave eyes and grim line of his mouth isn’t what Keith remembers of the eager scientist who boarded that ship with Shiro. Makes sense. Shiro’s not the same either.

“That’s good, that’s great,” comes Hunk’s voice in their ear-pieces. “But maybe just hurry a little? I don’t think they like us being on their ship.” Even as the words leave his mouth, he lets out a little whoop, and the obnoxious blaring of the alarm shuts up.

“It’s okay, we’ve got the exit covered. Just be careful,” says Shiro, calm and steady as always.

“Still, you’d think they’d be a bit quicker,” says Lance. “I mean, how long does it take to just—”

Keith rolls his eyes. “Shut up, Lance,” he says, though the words are something closer to fond than they were years ago (and Keith still hasn’t figured out whether or not that annoys him).

The first thing that Pidge does when they round the corner to meet the other Paladins is to kick Lance in the shin.

“We’re here now, so quit whining,” she says, tone flat, but Keith can still hear the elation, and her relief. None of them are going to feel comfortable until they’re entirely off the ship, but they’re one step closer.

When Keith slows, and turns to Shiro, he sees the same elation and relief open on his face, but Shiro’s not looking at him. Instead, he’s staring at a point past Keith’s shoulder, and Keith turns to see Matt blink in surprise. He hasn’t spoken much since Keith and Pidge busted him out of his cell ( _all Keith had heard was the disbelieving croak of “Katie?” and the chattering of teeth_ ), but his lips are parted and moving around words that don’t sound.

“You’re alive,” he finally says, and then Shiro’s stepping over to pull him into a rough hug. Shiro murmurs something that Keith can’t hear, and Keith lets them have their moment—they deserve it, after everything.

Hunk, however, has a different opinion, waving his arm to get their attention.

“All right, this is great—hi, I’m Hunk, nice to meet you—but we should really get going now.”

Shiro lets go of Matt, and sends a short smile Hunk’s way. “You’re right, let’s go.”

“You guys got ships somewhere?” Matt asks, looking from Pidge to Shiro.

Pidge grins, and there’s a spark there that Keith rarely sees. “Kind of.”

“Kind of?”

“You’ll see,” Pidge says cryptically, and Shiro chuckles.

“Enough mystery, let’s get going.” He smiles at Keith, and clasps his hand over Keith’s shoulder. Behind him, he can almost _feel_ Lance roll his eyes, but if that reaction wasn’t predictable enough, Keith hears the over-exaggerated gagging noise. But that doesn’t stop Keith from looking up and smiling back—in fact, he just leans into the touch more, just to spite Lance. Not that he’s doing it entirely out of spite—it’s almost dumb how his heart does a little turn, and honestly, he can’t help _but_ smile. Keith doesn’t think that he’s ever going to get sick of the weight of Shiro’s hand on him.

“Let’s—“ Shiro freezes. He’s got his hand on Keith’s shoulder, and Keith’s feels him stiffen beside him.

Keith raises his bayard, and he sees a flash of movement out of the corner of his eye—

—but then Shiro’s lunging at him with a shout, and Keith barely brings his sword up in time to block it.

“Shiro, what—”

“Matt, no!”

Stunned, Keith manages to shove Shiro away for long enough—a split second—to turn to see Matt race past him. Matt roars and charges at Lance, and then everyone’s shouts are clamouring, fighting, clashing over the comms. Lance barely skips out of the way before Hunk’s next to him, halting Matt’s progress by barely catching the fist that comes his way.

“Paladins, what’s happening?”

“We got a druid problem!” Lance says, the first to realise, and then he’s dashing in next to Keith to catch Shiro’s arm on his blaster. Keith tries to take him down quickly, goes to tangle his legs in Shiro’s, but god, he’s quick, side-stepping away before Keith can get anywhere close. It’s hopeless—Lance does long-range, and both he and Keith are trying to figure out some way of going for stun-with-no-permanent-damage.

But Shiro? Shiro’s arm is glowing purple, and he’s steady on his feet, his eyes cold, cold, cold. Shiro’s going for the kill.

He lunges forward, and Keith blocks—one, two, three, before they slide away again. And, ah, Keith spots them—a druid, cloaked in the shadows, purple lights dancing at their fingertips. Almost lazily, they fire them past Keith, and Keith’s heart leaps when he hears Pidge yelp.

“You guys all right back there?”

“Yep, fine!” Pidge replies, but Keith can hear the distress. “Matt—Matt’s not okay.”

“Get him to your lion,” Keith says.

“Keith?”

Keith’s heart leaps, because suddenly, Shiro’s standing straight, eyes clear. “Yeah, it’s me.” Maybe—

But then Shiro whirls, turning _away_.

“Keith, where—” And then his eyes widen, and—what, _no_ , he’s running towards the druid. But not to attack, still calling Keith’s name. He—he thinks that’s Keith. He thinks that the druid’s Keith. He’s left himself wide open, and the druid raises their hand and—

And the familiar flash of fear that he’ll lose Shiro flares up again.

“Shiro, no!” With his heart pounding, Keith charges madly to _shove_ Shiro out of the way, and cries out when the shot flashes past him, searing pain where it catches his arm. He glances down at the damage—his armour is charred, cracked, and smoking, and his arm feels like it's on _fire_. But he can keep going— _has_ to keep going when Shiro leaps at him again with a snarl, even though his arm _rings_ with pain when Shiro’s arm crashes against Keith’s sword.

“Don’t touch him,” he growls, and Keith doesn’t know if Shiro’s talking about Matt, or about Keith himself. Either way, it’s a mess. And the druid’s taking advantage of that, Keith realises as he wards off Shiro.

“Get Matt out of hear!” he shouts.

“A little busy, Keith,” Lance says. “Trying to kick some druid butt!” He sounds more irritated at Keith than anything else. Which is good—the druid might be able to turn some of them, but at least Lance will still be Lance.

“Don’t care!” Keith grunts as Shiro _almost_ stabs him through the side, and somewhere beneath the adrenaline and focus, panic rabbits through him. He never wins against Shiro. This needs to be finished, and quickly.

“Get him out,” Keith repeats. “There’re too many of us for them to work with. Take Matt, I’ll handle Shiro.” If it’s just him and Shiro, then Keith knows what game the druid’s going to play—Keith as the enemy, the druid as a friend. With so many others here, there’s no knowing what they’ll do.

“Keith, you—” Hunk sounds uncertain, but then Matt’s on him like a rabid wolf, and he drops his bayard to clamp his arms tight around a struggling, snarling Matt.

“Go!” Keith shouts, at the same time that Matt screams “you won’t take him back!”

The others hesitate for a moment longer, but then they seem to come to a decision together, and hurry away.

“Better hurry the hell up, Keith,” Lance says, his panting echoing down their communications. “Coran won’t like it if you’re late for dinner.”

“I’d rather like to think that I’m far more concerned about Keith and Shiro’s wellbeing!”

“Yeah, yeah,” Keith says, and he’d roll his eyes if that didn’t mean that he took them off Shiro for a moment. Shiro who’s taking slow, steady steps towards Keith like a predator. Heart sick, Keith brings his bayard up.

“I won’t let you hurt anyone else,” Shiro says soft, but deadly.

“C’mon, I’m not going to hurt you, just _stop fighting me_ ,” Keith says, hoping that maybe Shiro will listen.

But Shiro doesn’t. Shiro doesn’t _see_ him, because he’s never looked at Keith like that. All cold ice, and he takes a step back. “Like hell I will.”

And before Keith knows what’s going on, before the fear can even _settle_ , Shiro’s darting forward. Keith ducks, and Shiro’s arm _barely_ misses his head. Keith parries the next blow that Shiro swings at him, and the next, but _god_ , it’s close. There’s fear climbing up his throat now, and in a desperate move, he tries to kick at Shiro—something, _anything_ to throw him off.

Stupid move.

With Keith unbalanced, it’s far too easy for Shiro to grab him, his arm wrapping _painfully_ around Keith. Then Shiro heaves him bodily to throw him, and Keith’s body _sings_ when he slams against the wall, the breath completely knocked out of him.

Okay, maybe it wasn’t a good idea to get the others to leave.

The thought barely passes through his brain before Shiro’s on him again, a snarl twisting his lips when he pins Keith down. Keith’s bayard barely gets up in time to stop Shiro stabbing him through the throat, and his heart is beating a terrified drum line against his ribs. His lungs are still protesting from having been thrown so violently, but there’s no time to catch his breath, and he forces his aching arm to _hold_ , _damn it_. His bayard’s pressing down and his fingers ache from trying to keep it in place.

The worst thing? The absolute worst thing is that Keith _knows_ this face. He knows, intimately, the curve of Shiro’s throat that’s stretched taut and ugly with strain, he knows that mouth that’s twisted in that vicious snarl.

 _Shiro_. Keith’s barely holding on—Shiro’s arm is glowing purple and deadly, bearing down on him and, god, if he slips for even a moment, it’s over.

“Shiro, come on,” he grits out, and he tries to buck, but Shiro won’t move, expression twisted as he bears down. “Shiro, it’s Keith.”

A mistake.

“ _Don’t_ say his name!” Shiro snarls, and his arm is almost blinding when he shoves at Keith. It takes everything Keith’s got to keep the deadly metal from his neck, and his pulse _leaps_ , and not in the way it usually does when Shiro’s this close.

“I’ll finish you,” Shiro promises, cold, and deadly, and a horrible shudder pierces Keith’s heart and races to his toes. “I’ll finally be rid of you.”

Keith doesn’t doubt it.

His hair’s poking his eyes, and Keith can’t move, not like this. Out of the corner of his eye, he sees the cloaked figure— _lurking_ in the shadows. Thank god the creature seems to be happy just watching, as though Shiro trying to tear the heart out of the love of his life is just entertainment. Which, Keith realises as he grits his teeth and tries to push back uselessly, it probably is.

He needs to take them out. If he can just—if he can just _stop this_ for a second, a single moment, then they can get out. But between the crushing weight of Shiro above him, and the fact that his sword won’t do much to a target on the other side of the room unless he throws it at them, there’s not much he can do.

Unless…unless his sword is a blaster.

But to get a shot, he’s going to have to shake Shiro off, somehow. Even if it’s just for a moment…and Keith thinks he might know how to do it. There’s a glimmer of hope, but also nervousness beneath it. It’s not something he’s practiced, not on the run, not in an _actual_ fight. Usually, he goes with the whole patience yields focus thing for practicing.

But patience might also yield decapitation here.

Still, Keith takes a short breath, and sinks deep—deep down, down to his connection with Red, to the feeling of togetherness, of Voltron, of something so much bigger than his mortal human being.

His sword flashes, and then he’s hidden behind a red shield, white banded around the edges, sturdy—and most importantly, not his sword.

The change in Keith’s bayard has Shiro slipping for just a moment, eyes widening in surprise. But it’s enough, that tiny slip, and with the shield in place, Keith can brace his arm and shoulder beneath it and _shove_. It’s not enough for him to get Shiro off him entirely, but it gives him that split second opening he needs. Quick as lightning, he lifts the shield up and even as he’s moving it’s already glowing, changing as he swings it through the air, and red heat runs through Keith, focusing on a tiny point of starlight in his mind as he feels the bayard’s energy rush through him—

The shot he fires from his newly-formed blaster hits their cloaked friend square in the chest.

It’s not enough to take them out entirely—Keith hadn’t been expecting it to be enough, though he’d _hoped_. Couldn’t things be easy for once? Still, it’s enough to have her staggering, enough that when he whirls around to block Shiro’s next shot, Shiro’s eyes blink wide with confusion and fear.

 

 

 

 

Sendak was here. Then Zarkon, and Haggar, and Shiro didn’t know what was real. Then he’d seen _him_ —his shadow, his other, trapped beneath him and laughing cruelly. _Mocking_ him with who he loved.

And then something flashed, and he was pushed away, he turned back to fight that monster—

—only for Keith to grab his hand, eyes wide and serious.

What was—

“Keith—” Shiro stutters, then whirls, panicked. “What—”

Haggar.

No—wait, no, not Haggar. But someone like her, cloaked, masked, and clutching at their side as they stagger forward and raise a hand.

“Shiro, I need you to listen.” Keith’s words are rapid, but firm, and true. They speak to Shiro’s heart, as Keith scrambles to his feet, dragging Shiro with him. “It’s Keith. I need you to trust me, okay?” His voice is shaking, but at least it’s working—Shiro can’t do anything more than nod, his throat clenching around nothing. Then Keith’s hand is firm in his, holding almost painfully tight, and Keith’s eyes are locked on his own. “Do not let go. Whatever you see, whatever you think it is, don’t let go. Hold on—if you hold on, that’s always gonna be me, yeah? I’ve got your back, I’ll cover you. Just follow me.”

Hold Keith’s hand. Sure, Shiro can do that. His head’s still spinning from the rapid change, and his eyes don’t feel like they’re really _focussing_ on anything. But he can do what Keith says. They’d discussed this before—if he just hangs on, if he doesn’t let go, he can know that it’s Keith. God, it made so much sense when they talked about it in the safety of the Castle, but Shiro’s not sure he’s strong enough for this. Not here. Not when all the shadows and dark and every twisted memory seems all so _real_.

But if he doesn’t do this, they won’t make it out of here.

Shiro nods.

Keith’s lips quirk in a smile, before the panic rushes back to cloud his face. And Shiro goes to ask what it is, what he’s seen—but he doesn’t need to. Because dark starts to flood the room, sticky shadows, flickers of purple and yellow that tear at Shiro’s heart and mind. Keith’s face twists before him, and Shiro flinches as it turns into yellow eyes, cruel smile, white hair—

“C’mon!”

But through it all comes Keith’s voice, distorted, a growl, and his hand tugging Shiro along. Fear hammers against Shiro’s ribs, and there are echoes of _champion champion_ and the roar of the crowd and Sendak’s voice in his mind with vicious murmurs of _broken broken broken_ —

The dark is closing in, and he can’t breathe, he can’t see—

“I’ve got you Shiro.”

The words are harsh, too loud, and Shiro jerks back—but the grip on wrist is firm, almost painful.

“It’s Keith.” Before him, it’s the _other_ , the Champion with its glowing eyes and grey skin, teeth bared—

“It’s Keith,” the thing repeats, and it’s not. It’s not Keith, it’s not, it’s a lie. But some part of him also knows that what he’s seeing is a lie, and his thoughts are twisted in his mind. “I haven’t let go, it’s still me, Shiro.”

It’s _not_ , Shiro can see the dark, yellow, purple, his arm glowing bright. The words are haunting, because isn’t it true? The other has never really left him, hides deep in the shadows of Shiro’s heart. The other really _hasn’t_ let go, and the words are menacing and threatening. A cruel, cruel promise.

But if Shiro digs down, deep into what they’ve been working on, he _knows._ Keith had been holding him, and the weight around his hand hasn’t disappeared.

 _I need you to trust me_.

Shiro closes his eyes, tightens his grip on the hand in his, and runs, the echoes of war and shame chasing his heels.

 

 

 

 

Miraculously, Shiro manages to pilot his lion back to the Castle. Though if anything, she does more work than he. The feeling of her beneath his hands is comforting, as is her gentle pressure that sits, ever-present, in his mind. There’s gentle chatter over their communications, Katie’s voice a constant stream of explaining this and that to a Matt that Shiro can’t hear.

And then they’re docked, and Coran and Allura are waiting for them, relief clear to see as soon as they leave their lions.

“I trust everything went well then?” Allura asks as soon as they’re in earshot, and Shiro shrugs as he takes off his helmet, ears ringing.

“As well as it could’ve,” he says. After all, they’re alive, unharmed, and all of them are back on the ship. Better than other failed missions.

He thinks that maybe Allura caught that last part of his thoughts, because her brow furrows, just for an instant. Sometimes, he suspects that beneath all the Altean mystery and other weird powers, she might have telepathy mixed in with the bag of tricks. Or it’s just years of diplomatic life—and Shiro doesn’t know exactly how many years that was—that’s made her so good at reading people.

Whatever it is, the feeling of her hand laid gentle on his arm burns—from comfort, from love, from shame.

“You did well, then,” she says quietly. Her smile is firm, and she rests her hand on his arm a moment longer before she moves past him. She greets the rest of them, but Shiro can’t hear it properly. Coran and Lance are making equal amounts of noise, as per usual, but it’s all kind of distant.

Then there’s another presence at his side, and Shiro doesn’t have to turn to see who it is.

“You all right?” Keith asks.

“Mmm.”

“Let’s—”

Then he finds himself pressed up against Keith, an arm clutched around his waist. For a moment, he thinks it’s Keith. Then he realises there’s pressure against his back, and he twists his head to see a familiar mop of light brown hair, floating over green and white.

“Thought I’d hand out some victory hugs,” Katie says, and she squishes the two of them even closer together.

When Shiro looks over, Keith’s smiling softly down at Katie. “Think we deserve it, hey?”

For a moment, Katie doesn’t say anything. Then she just mashes her face into the back of Keith’s armour. “Thank you,” she says, voice muffled. “Thank you.”

“Course,” Keith murmurs.

Then Katie draws away, and she’s so fierce and full of love. They all are—the lot of them, the colours of the other Paladins mixed in with Allura’s pink and Coran’s purple, and now Matt as well. They’re safety, and they’re family. But right now Shiro can’t stand to be seen by them.

“I think I’m going to lie down a bit,” he says, his voice sounding distant in his ears.

Matt looks at him, his eyes flashing behind a curtain of too-long hair, and Shiro—

— _fighting, cold, dark, fear_ —

—Shiro knows they’ll need to talk. At some point, but just—not now. Not now when the disgust is rising high in his throat and choking black in his heart.

“I’ll call for you when we have dinner!” Coran says.

Shiro nods, because he can’t speak anymore. He barely sees the blue lights of the Castle as he drags his feet back to his room, hardly cares when he strips of his helmet, his armour, and just crawls into bed with the blanket clutched tight around him.

It’s funny how mere hours ago, he was fine, and now he just—isn’t. Sure, he’d been a little unsteady at the prospect of seeing Matt again, but he’d kept that in control, hadn’t he? He’d been fine, and _happy_ to have his friend back, though the emotions that had swirled through him upon seeing him again went beyond just being happy. Relief that he was still alive, and that feeling of something done. Something achieved, because he hadn’t lost anything more.

And then had come along the damn _druid_ , dragging them both back to the Empire that still had its hold on them.

It’s nothing new. It’s nothing Shiro hasn’t dealt with before, and as long as Zarkon remains as powerful as he is, it’ll be something Shiro will deal with again. _It’s not fair_ , he thinks, and almost laughs at how petulant it sounds. It’s not. But it’s the hand he’s been dealt with, so it’s what he, in his turn, has to deal with.

There’s a knock at the door, and Shiro knows who it is. Expects it, he realises with a stab of guilt. He really shouldn’t.

“‘Kashi?” Keith’s voice is muffled through the door. Shiro doesn’t know why he bothers. Why he bothers to ask, for one, because he knows that Shiro needs him.

The other thing is why he bothers with Shiro at all.

He hears the door slide open, the light from outside illuminating his room for just a moment, before it closes again quietly. Gentle footsteps pad towards him, and then there’s weight on the bed.

“Need anything?” Keith asks, because of course Keith asks.

Shedding the blanket, he grabs blindly without looking at Keith, and then Keith’s fingers find their way into his. Shiro shakes his head, and Keith shuffles further along the bed.

“All right.”

Shiro clenches his eyes shut and tries to bury himself in _now_ : the smoothness of the blanket pressed against his chin, Keith’s fingers warm in his as his thumb swipes gentle circles on Shiro’s hand, his own breath whistling through his nose as he takes in cold air. Still, nothing prevents the chanting in his heart of _failure failure failure_ and the reminder that he’s broken and beaten down as he sees it all again, except this time as how it really was: Keith pinned beneath his weight, words desperate, arm straining as he held Shiro off with his bayard.

God, he’d almost killed him. He can see it—he almost sank his arm right through the one thing that was most important out here, far from Earth. He’d almost _killed him_.

Shiro’s fingers trail unsteadily across the palm of Keith’s hand in silent apology. He’d almost killed him. He’s trying to keep himself anchored, in the smooth feeling of Keith’s skin against his, smaller fingers pressed against his own.

 _He’d almost killed him_.

The smooth skin of Keith’s wrist, where his pulse is beating to let Shiro know that he’s still alive. And…something rough. Cloth, wrapped around his arm.

Shiro shifts, and with what feels like huge effort, props himself up on one elbow. Wordlessly, he takes Keith’s hand, and—oh. A bandage. Of course.

Shiro’s heart sinks.

“Did…did I…?”

He almost shakes with relief when Keith shakes his head. “Nah, druid got a lucky shot in. Wasn’t you.”

If that wasn’t, then what was? But god, how much more selfish could he be? Keith’s hurt, and the first thing he asks is about himself. “Are you all right?” he manages to force out, and Keith’s smile still manages to light something in Shiro.

“I’m fine,” Keith says, and he bends to kiss Shiro on the cheek. “Nothing a bit of Coran’s weird space jam can’t fix. It’ll be fine by tomorrow, he says.”

But now they’re here, Shiro starts looking for other injuries. There’s nothing else, except a bruise on Keith’s chin that’s just starting to show.

“And this?” he asks, bringing a trembling hand to brush it lightly.

Keith shrugs. “It’s a bit hard to tell in a fight. Could’ve been you, could’ve been someone else.”

Except there was no one else. No one except for one druid, and by that logic, _some_ of this must be Shiro’s fault. At the very least, Shiro knows Keith’s hands must be aching from having Shiro’s weight over him, pressing down on his bayard. He knows this, and it makes him sick.

“I’m sorry,” he says stiffly. What else is there for him to say?

“Wasn’t your fault.”

Shiro looks away, and grits his teeth so hard his jaw hurts.

“Right.”

Next to him, Keith sighs. Without looking, Shiro knows what he looks like—his head will be bowed, he’s probably staring at his toes, one hand tucked in the pocket of his jacket. Oh, Shiro almost killed him today, but Keith just _sighs_. As though he was mildly inconvenienced because Shiro forgot to fuel up the car, or left the lights on in the kitchen again.

“It’s not,” Keith insists.

That’s enough to have Shiro sitting up straight. Disgust and fear, they’re sluggish, and paralysing. But the anger he has for himself has him sitting up, dragging the blanket with him.

“You—how can you say that? I tried to _kill_ you.”

“That wasn’t you, Takashi,” Keith says. “You know that.”

Shiro draws in a shuddering breath, lets it stutter back out. “I don’t know anything.”

“Well, I know you.”

After everything, how can Keith not be _angry_ at him? “You don’t know—you don’t know what it’s _like_ ,” he chokes out, and he looks at Keith incredulously, because how could he get it? “You just—how can you know? _I_ don’t know what I am. I haven’t known in years, I haven’t figured it out because every time I take a step forward it’s like ten damn steps backwards. Every time I think I _have_ it, I just—I just don’t.” His words are strangled, his breath horribly tight around his throat, because he can’t _figure this out_.

“We’ve been at this for _years_ , Keith,” he says desperately, because he just wants it to _stop_. “Years, and I still don’t—I still can’t work it out.”

Shiro hates his skin, and the parts of him that aren’t his. The parts that are cold, worn, stiff. Harsh steel, unforgiving and incapable of love. And he hates that he forced that on Keith—beautiful, bright, warm, and all Shiro has to offer is this frozen waste of his brittle heart.

Slowly, making sure Shiro can seem his every movement, Keith takes his hands. Shiro flinches, but Keith’s hold is firm, gentle, patient. As Keith is and had been—before all of this, while he was waiting, and here with Shiro now. Gently, he lifts Shiro’s hand—first his flesh one, and he kisses his knuckles, still rough from the fight. One, two, three, four, five.

It’d be a silly gesture at any other time, and dully, Shiro thinks Keith would usually be embarrassed by his own sentimentality. But Keith just runs his thumb gently over Shiro’s hand, and Shiro's breath hitches as Keith lifts the _other_ , and does the same. Even though the smooth metal barely registers the touch, and must be inhumanly hard against Keith's lips. Shiro’s heart turns slowly as he watches Keith in the dim light of the ship.

One. Two. Three. Four. Five.

“You don’t have to work it out,” Keith says quietly. Shiro starts to protest, but Keith just shakes his head, and draws Shiro’s hand to his lap. “You don’t have to know all at once. It’s okay. It’s—I know it’s crap, I know it sucks. But whatever I can do, I’ll be here, all right? You’re doing fine.”

Shiro’s heart is in his throat as he watches Keith swipe his thumb gently over his hand, tucking Shiro’s larger hand between his own.

“Doesn’t feel like it,” he says eventually, voice hoarse.

But Keith just shakes his head, leans forward to press his forehead to Shiro’s.

“You’re trying, Shiro,” Keith says, soft, gentle, kind. “That’s enough. I promise.”

The first tears slips free before Shiro even notices. It’s not until he has to sniff that he realises that he’s even crying, and the whimper he hadn’t realised was clogging his throat bursts free in a sob when Keith brings his arms up to wrap around Shiro.

“I’m sorry,” Shiro says, voice thick.

“It’s okay. There’s nothing to be sorry for.”

“I’m just— _everything_ ,” Shiro says desperately, because he needs to be forgiven. He needs to know that Keith thinks—knows, _believes_ —that Shiro’s good. “I’m sorry, I’m so—”

“Shhh, Shiro, it’s okay. It’s okay.”

And Keith just lets him ride it out. Just lets him break, and shake himself to pieces in Keith’s arms, the blanket a tangled mess around his waist, hands tearing at his hair and clutching at the terrible, oppressive _weight_ in his throat. Through it all, Keith is there, murmuring gentle words, smoothing his hands across Shiro’s back as though his touch alone could soothe out the tremors and mend the cracks.

Keith presses his cheek to Shiro’s own, his hand playing with the soft hair at the nape of Shiro’s neck. Gently, gently, he presses a kiss to Shiro’s forehead, and draws back. “You’re okay.”

Shiro tries for a watery smile. It’s hard to make out in the shadows of his room, but Shiro lifts his hand to brush against the spot where he knows there to be a bruise. A bruise he put there.

Softly, he presses his lips to the spot.

“My brave boy,” Shiro whispers, and his smile shakes with his heart. But it’s there, and that has to count for something. He’s trying. He’s trying.

“Nah, think that’s you,” Keith says, and he leans forward so he can slip his arm around Shiro’s shoulders and hold him close. Shiro shifts, and leans in closer to settle himself with a sigh in Keith’s warmth. God knows how far away they are from Earth, but somehow, _somehow_ , this man holds everything he needs. Keith’s words are rough in his ear, the weight of them shoring up Shiro’s foundations with how much Keith believes in them. “Every day. Every day I see what you do. I know you’re trying, Takashi. I see it.”

God, the _pride_ in Keith’s voice fills him like nothing else. Warms him to the depths of his soul, gives him something that…makes him feel as though there’s a little bit of good again. Just the tiniest golden droplet in the pool of a vast ocean.

But it’s enough.

Undone, Shiro wraps his arms around Keith to hold him tighter, to _feel_ him against his skin, his breath, his soul.

_You undo me. You make me better. You help me know myself._

The words are thick in his throat, and he doesn’t know how to get them out. Maybe another day, but right now the exhaustion is dug deep so deep in his bones that all he can do is feel. So he just holds Keith all the tighter. Tries to speak through his fingers pressing at the nape of Keith’s neck, the brush of lips against Keith’s cheek, and their hearts pressed together.

And with the way that Keith hums happily, and plants a gentle kiss on Shiro’s ear, Shiro thinks his message might just have gotten through.

**Author's Note:**

> I AM SO TERRIBLY LATE FOR SHEITH WEEK BUT PLEASE ACCEPT THIS. I rush wrote this in the middle of studying for exams, so comments and kudos and messages much appreciated :) 
> 
> And no, I have no idea what that title is. 
> 
> [Voltron blog](http://www.psytrron.tumblr.com) and [main blog](http://www.psyraah.tumblr.com).


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